Young Justice Hunger Games AU
by Crawling-through-ashes
Summary: Title pretty much says it all. Mentions of Supermartian/Spitfire later on. Told from Jaime's perspective with an emphasis on Bluepulse.
1. Part 1 - The Tributes: Chapter 1

**_Part I - "The Tributes" __Chapter 1_**

I awake to the sound of screaming. It's high and shrill and the kind of desperate crying only a mother should here. I swear I am anything but weak. I have lived my life with a shortage of food, a scarcity of luxury items, and a fear that is ever present. I have faced much worse days, but hearing Milagro wail like that makes something inside of me crack.

Fear clutches at my throat, working it's way from my heart to my chest, and I'll admit, okay, waking up to such anguished howling is rather… unnerving. Though not entirely unexpected.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I amble into the quaint living room where my sister is cocooned against mi mamá's body. She traces soothing circles along Milagro's back, and their matching heads of ebony hair are inky black like the sky at night. Now, however, the sky is a myriad of oranges, pinks, yellows, and the slightest tinge of red. A deep red, as if to symbolize the innocent blood that is soon to be spilled.

I clear my throat, knowing that if I speak and my voice cracks, then tears will threaten too. But I can't afford such a display of weakness. Not today. Not on_ the day. _

Mamá's eyes snap open. "Jaime!" she exclaims warmly, as if my presence is a surprise. "How did you sleep?"

Mamá is so kind. I can hear it in her voice, see it in her smooth chocolate eyes. People in the Seam, the poorer division of District 12, often say Milagro resembles her, but they have no idea how truly aggravating she can be as a sister. Still, I wish they'd say I was like Bianca Reyes too.

_'How did you sleep?'_ I repeat silently in my head. "Like always," I reply finally, my voice coming out a tad harsher than I intended. Over time, I have learned to muffle my screams at night, have gotten used to finding my pillow damp with tears. _'How did you sleep?' _The question echoes again, my mind twisting the gentle question into a cruel taunt. Really, how did she think I slept?

The nightmares started when I was very young; too young to pinpoint exactly when. They always start the same way. A pair of unfeeling amber eyes lock on mine and I am frozen. Then the man possessing those empty eyes steps forwards. His armored hands begin to clench around my spine, metal fingertips digging through my skin as though it were putty. He knows who I am, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, he is after me.

"Where are you going mi hijo?"

Upon hearing her voice, I instantly slip out of my reverie. When I look down, I realize that I had slipped into my hunting boots, supple, worn leather, and had pulled on my jacket while lost in thought. This I had done subconsciously; and out of habit.

"Um," I pause, "I'm meeting Tye."

"Don't go too—"

The slam of the door behind me drowns out the rest of her sentence, and then I am weaving my way towards the fence and into the woods surrounding District 12 on all sides.

I finally come to a stop on the crest of a hill nestled within the forest and overlooking a plethora of cliffs and craggy valleys. "Hey." I am greeted by a husky voice.

"Hey," I respond. All of our conversations start like this, whether they're casual chats or angry tirades.

"How's Milagro?"

"Fine." It's a lie and we both know it. But really, who, besides the citizens of the Capitol eager for our deaths, and the heartless gamblers betting on who will be reaped and who will survive to be victor, are at all okay on Reaping day?

There's a lull in the discussion, and I quickly pick things up by asking, "How's your… family?" I have trouble working my tongue around the word 'family', because Shelly Longshadow and her step-husband Maurice are about as much a family to Tye as the dead rabbit draped on the grass beside him.

Tye shoots me a look. "I'm going to do it this time."

"Sure," I say. There was a time when Tye's empty threats of running away used to scare me, not only because he'd undoubtedly wind up dead, but because I'd lose the only friend I'd every really had. Now though, I don't even raise an eyebrow.

"I'm serious, Jaime! I'm done with Maurice always pushing me around. There's two other guys I talked to, Ed and Virgil, and we've planned it out. The four of us are leaving tonight, after the Reaping."

"Whoa, slow down,_ hermano_. What makes you think I'm coming?"

"Dude, I never said—"

"You said 'the four of us'."

"Oh, right." Tye ducks his head, and I can see a faint blush creep up his neck. "Asami, she's this Oriental girl , she, uh, she's coming too."

"You favor her?" She must be really something if Tye's this flustered.

"Please. And what about you and Cassie?"

Cassie Sandsmark is a tall, bubbly blonde girl in our class. There's no denying that she's pretty, but we've had little interaction, and she doesn't strike me as the kind of person I could really open up to. Don't get me wrong, but somehow I just can't envisage us ever having a real, meaningful discussion.

For example, when I confided in Tye about the nightmares I get, he helped me research dreams in our school's sorely lacking library. We ended up chalking my recurring dreams up to a fear of becoming a puppet of the Capitol. Cassie lives in the wealthier part of town, and while her name is entered annually as well, she's never needed to enter her name additional times for tesserae. Tessera are tokens worth a meager year's supply of grain and oil. For us living in the Seam, tessera helps with the struggle for food. It's hard relating to someone whose always had just enough food to get by, and has significantly slimmer chances of getting Reaped.

Tye and I hunt to help support our families, but more often than not we still go to bed with growling stomachs. Tessera will at least help to fill those mouths always hungry for more. No, I decide, there is nothing between Cassie and I.

I whip my head to the side. "No there isn't," I hiss firmly. This is another thing a girl like Cassie will never understand. The voice I hear in my head sometimes. An almost mechanical, disembodied voice for my ears only. Tye understands though, or at least accepts it.

I shake my head, scattering thoughts of Cassie aside, and focus back on the 'running away' thing. So Tye was referring to this 'Sami' girl, and not assuming I would be joining him.

"Wow. You and the runaways." I try to keep my voice nonchalant, but Tye must notice that I'm a bit miffed.

"You could come with us," he offered. "You and I, and the runaways. We could make it."

We probably could, but for how long? I humour myself for a moment, and try to imagine a life untouched by the Capitol's sadistic ways. The thing is, I can't even begin to picture what it would be like.

"It would never work, I have Milagro and my parents to look after. And Shelly would never get by without you."

Tye scowls, but we both know, deep down, that even though his mom is passive when her abusive step-husband 'deals' with Tye, he still cares about her. I find it hard to believe he'd really go far before turning back.

"Fine, don't come. But remember today's my last Reaping, while you'll still have two more, not to mention watching Milagro's name go in the Reaping pool every year until she's eighteen."

The tension growing between us is palpable, and I feel like a single wrong word will set me off, so I change the subject. "Should we divide the game then?"

Tye and I gather a bushel of strawberries and some greens to go with the rabbit caught by one of our snares, and we meander back to the other side of the fence. It's not quite noon when we cross back into the "safety" of our District, and the streets are still deserted.

Shutters are drawn tight and doors are locked as family's wait for the Reaping to commence. Tears to be shed, blood to be spilled, just another average day in Panem.

Tye and I knock on the back door of the butchery, where Bibbo exchanges several coins for the rabbit. He throws in a drumstick, too. Maybe he's feeling extra generous, since both Tye and I are potential tributes and no one likes to see children sent off to the Capitol.

We trade the greens at the Hob, which serves as a black market, until there's nothing left to do but to get ready for the Reaping. Tye walks with me back to my house. If he is serious about running away, which I highly doubt, but for argument's sake let's say he is, then this could be one of the last times we see each other for a while.

"Tell your folks I said hello," Tye mumbles as we reach the front steps to the tiny house.

"Thanks." As Tye turns to go, I call back, "Oh, and may the odds—"

"Shut it, Jaime," he grumbles, clearly not in the mood to mock the Capitol's ridiculous accent. There's a faint trace of a laugh in his voice, though, so I know he's not really annoyed.

I loiter in the doorframe to watch him leave, before finishing quietly, "be _ever_ in your favour." It is a silent prayer for the both of us.

When I traipse inside, I find Milagro curled up on the rug, her head in between her knees. She's quieted down, and her chest rises and falls in an even manner. I fold myself into a sitting position beside her, and pull her head to my chest.

We sit like that for a good hour, until Mamá tells us it's time to get ready.

"I'm scared Jaime," she says plaintively.

I brush a fat tear off of her cheek, and fix her lopsided pigtails. "It's your first Reaping. They're not going to pick you."

She manages the ghost of a smile, and shortly after that, we head out to the Reaping as a family. My parents walk hand-in-hand, and that's when I noticed that Papá left his walking cane at home. Without it, you can clearly see that he walks with a limping gait, a reminder of the mining accident that left him damaged.

But today is the day. Reaping Day. We are all damaged in some way.

Milagro and I head to our designated sections facing the the Reaping stage. Queen Bee, the escort of the District 12 tributes, sits elegant and poised as everyone aged twelve to eighteen is ushered to roped off areas.

I bite my cheek as I wait for the Reaping to start. There are mandatory speeches we must hear before the male and female tribute is selected, but I tune them out.

Queen Bee strides calmly to the Reaping balls. Sunlight glints off her golden diadem, illuminating her dark-skinned face. "Ladies first," she announces in her sickly sweet voice. It flows like honey, but the sound of it makes my lips pucker as if I've tasted something sour.

I have already started the silent chant in my head. '_Please don't let it be me.'_ After the girl tribute is chosen, the male name will be drawn. '_Please don't let it be me._ _Please don't let it…'_

For the first time, the chant I have maintained during my past four Reapings comes to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, I don't care if it's me.

Queen Bee has called the female tribute's name. It's Milagro Reyes.

I instinctively begin to move forward, but the crowd is thick and they seem to be surging against me. Why are they making it so difficult for me? Everyone is moving. I want to scream at them to stand still so I can move forward. But no one is. They're all spinning in place. Spinning so fast.

_[You are dizzy, Jaime Reyes.]_ The voice in my head pulls me back to attention. I feel numb and breathless, but not in the satisfied way you feel after an adrenaline rush from running.

Milagro's face is unreadable, but her hands are balled into tiny fists at her sides, knuckles gone pale.

The crowd is muttering the way they do whenever a twelve year-old is Reaped. They have almost no chance in the arena, where they could possibly have to take on hulking eighteen year-olds easily one to two hundred pounds heavier.

The thought of Milagro, irksome yet sweet Milagro, being murdered is too much to bear. The cameras are trained on her face, on her reaction, and surprisingly, Milagro is keeping her composure.

That's what sets me over the edge.

"Now, for the boys."

I don't even hear who is called before I'm screaming, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute."

An audible gasp sweeps through the crowd. Volunteers are practically unheard of in District 12. In some Districts, where it is an honour to be tribute, volunteers are common. But in the poorest of the Districts, this is newsworthy, this is shocking.

"I volunteer," I repeat uncertainly. Do I step forward? Everyone is staring at me.

"Go on Jaime," I hear someone, Tye maybe, say.

I slowly make my way to the podium, where Queen Bee is grinning at me in a haunting flash of unnaturally bright teeth. Her blue eyes looks so odd paired with her raven black hair and dark skin, but despite hints of gold and her stinger-shaped earrings, she is somewhat normal for a Capitol citizen.

But while most citizens of the plutocratic Capitol are blithering, fashion-crazed fools, Queen Bee has an almost vindictive air about her.

"What's your name?" There it is, that falsely charming voice that is too sweet to stomach.

"Jaime Reyes."

"Hi-may," she tests the word, but with her Capitol accent it sounds wrong. "I'll bet my crown that that's your sister," the cameras turn momentarily back to Milagro, before refocusing on my face.

I nod once, twice, fighting the rising lump in my throat.

"Don't want her to steal all the family glory do we?"

No, I don't want her to die. What I do want is for Queen Bee to fall off the stage and drown in her honey-like voice until she stops breathing, or to at least change from her strapless grey dress into something more modest.

The cameras are trained on my face, anticipating a response. Like I will give them the satisfaction.

"Do we?" she repeats, in a hushed voice just loud enough for me to hear. Something in her gaze gardens, and I stutter dumbly, "Something like that."

I blink and step back. Did she do something to make me speak? The procession is already continuing on, but there's a grim satisfaction painted on her lips that makes me wonder.

It is customary for each District's former victors to attend the annual Reaping, but we haven't had a victor in years, and our last one died in an accident before Milagro was born.

Milagro and I shake hands, as is tradition, and while I'm not trembling like she is, the palm of my hand is slick with sweat. I wait for her to wipe her palm on her clothes, or to comment on what a sweaty mess I am, but there is only silence.

We are then escorted to two separate, private rooms where our parents and family friends are permitted to bid us good bye. I collapse onto a cushioned chair and swivel to take in the room. A painting framed in plaited gold, a crystalline chandelier, a velvet rug. If I sold even the vase centerpiece on the marble table my family would be set for months.

I wipe my clammy hands on my pants and wait. My parents walk in about a minute later and the atmosphere in the room shifts. They are crying. If my parents, two of the strongest people I have ever know are already in tears, how can I expect to keep it together?

"Don't worry. I'll look after her."

Mamá sobs louder, burying her face in Papá's shirt. And then it occurs to me. Only one of us can be crowned victor. What if Milagro and I are are the last two tributes. Then what?

I banish the thought to the periphery of my mind. The chances of even one of us making it to the final few is so remote, that there isn't any use worrying about it yet.

"Jaime," Mamá gasps, "look after yourself too. If anything happens… you fight. You're strong. I can't lose both of you."

"You won't."

She nods and wraps her arms around me. I feel safe here. Here it's safe and warm. But the embrace is over too soon.

"Bianca," Papá murmurs. "I want a word with Jaime alone."

She nods, and exits, her back hunched over as if her body is collapsing against its self. "I'll check on Mila again."

I turn back to mi padre. "You're just like your mother."

I flinch in surprise. Surely he doesn't mean that. In looks and stature I take after him. I am proud to take after him, even though it is nice being called 'kind' and 'strong-hearted' rather than simply 'strong' and 'dependable'.

"Is it selfish to wish you were more like me?" he wonders aloud. "I wouldn't have volunteered at the Reaping, Jaime. I wish you hadn't. But you are your mother's child. Kind and selfless."

A warm glow seeps through my chest, but I'm not really sure where he's going with this. Papá has always been the kind of person who speaks through actions.

"Jaime, I want you to listen to me. In the arena, your first instinct is going to be to keep your sister out of harms way, but you won't be doing anyone favours taking a knife through the heart for her. She's twelve. She has no chance of outmatching or outsmarting the other tributes. She's clever, but not enough to outwit tributes half a decade older. Jaime, you on the other hand, can hunt. You're smart and people are easily drawn to you; you'll have no trouble forming an alliance with the other tributes. Take care of yourself and District 12 might finally have a victor."

I want to lash out at him for his words, but this is not the case of a parent playing favorites; it is an unbiased man stating the cold hard truth for what it is.

I nod slowly. In a matter of minutes Alberto Reyes, my father, has become a stranger to me. With nothing more to say, he leans in to hug me goodbye, but pulls out at the last second, and instead clasps my hand between his own. "I'll be praying for you. Both of you." ,

With that, I am once again alone. No more visitors, I think. And not long before we depart for the Capitol.

I'm wrong, though. I do get one last visitor.

"Tye!" My face breaks into a smile. I don't have to pretend to be strong around him.

His voice is solemn, his eyes teary. "Jaime," his already husky voice sounds rougher than usual.

I am so happy to see him. I am smiling. I am grinning. I am crying, crying, crying.

He doesn't offer me words of consolation; doesn't try to comfort me. But his presence alone is sturdy and for that I am grateful for forging this friendship.

Years ago, not long after the mining accident, I saw Tye sneaking through the fence and into the off-limits area that we now hunt in daily. I had followed him, and when he realized he was being tailed, I was faced with a cruel looking knife. "Where are you going?" I'd asked, wide-eyed.

"Running away."

"Why?"

After he'd realized I was in no way a threat, a lanky teenager who'd headed into the forest completely unarmed, he sheathed his knife, and we began talking. Something had kind of clicked, I guess. A mutual need for survival that grew into something bordering trust. And an eventual, unintended friendship.

"Jaime," he says again. "Get your hands on a weapon. You're handy with knives and long-range weapons. And you know how to hunt."

"Animals."

"How different can it be?"

I can't stand talking about this. "Tye whatever you do, don't let them starve." Them. Bianca and Alberto Reyes.

"I won't. And I won't run-off either."

Right. The runaway thing. With the Reaping and upcoming Hunger Games I'd completely forgotten.

The padding of footsteps echoes down the hall and it hits Tye and I at the same time that the Peacekeeper's are here and time's up.

"Jaime, remember—" But I don't know what I'm supposed to remember because they've pulled Tye out of the room, and are directing me towards the train to the Capitol.

I find Milagro outside, and see her downcast eyes are red and swollen. As we board the train we are silent. She is glaring at her shoes, or possibly the ground, and I want her to lecture her about frown-lines, but it would somehow seem inappropriate considering we're headed to our deaths.

The train, which I'm told travels at 200 mph, is even more opulent than the sitting room I was in, yet I suspect that it is only a reflection of the grandeur of the shining Capitol.

We are escorted by Queen Bee to the dining car. She is still smiling that falsely sweet smile. Last year District 12 had a different escort, whose enthusiasm seemed genuine. I wonder why the District 12 escort position became vacant, and why someone as regal as Queen Bee would bother with such a lowly position. I can't shake the feeling that something is going to be different about these Games, and not just because I'm now a contender.

"Your mentor will be along promptly."

"Mentor?" I ask.

The victors of each Games are required to mentor and train the new pair of tributes each year, but since our last victor passed, I can't imagine who the Capitol has scrounged up.

"Yes," Queen Bee smirks as if we're in for a real surprise, before leaving the compartment.

Milagro and I sit, and this is not a calm silence, it is an anxious one that gnaws on my flesh. Just when I'm starting to get perturbed by her lack of words, she squeaks out an "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Getting chosen."

"Like that was your fault. Your name was only entered once. The odds just weren't—"

"—No. I-I entered my name in extra times for tessera. I wanted to help."

The look I give her is unforgiving. I specifically instructed her not to opt for tesserae. We were scraping by just fine with the food I procured daily in the woods. Sure, sometimes it had to be traded in exchange for other necessities, but I had us covered.

"I never meant for you to volunteer too. Now you're going to die because of me!"

I sigh in exasperation. Why is my first instinct to comfort her even when I'm furious at her?

My anger ebbs away and is replaced by curiosity when the shuffling of footsteps resounds.

"Hey, so you two are this year's tributes." The voice is so light and casual, as if he's just commented on the weather, that I don't even take it seriously. "Yep, this looks like an exciting year."

"You're our mentor?" Milagro's disbelieving voice conveys what I'm thinking.

"In the flesh." He nods his head and strands of blonde hair fall into his eyes. He has a cleft in his chin, a brilliant smile and the demeanour of a movie star.

"What, exactly, is your name?" Oh sure, I think. Milagro's practically speechless until given the opportunity to same something rude.

"Booster Gold."

District 1, I think with a sneer. There's no doubt about it. The people of District 1, which makes luxury items for the Capitol, always have the most ridiculous names.

"So," Milagro says distastefully, "what did you do to get stuck as our mentor? Betray the Capitol?"

Booster laughs airily. "You kidding? Look at these refreshments!" He pours himself a glass of amber liquid and pops a truffle with some sort of dark chocolate drizzled over it in his mouth. I recognize chocolate because they sell it in the tiny sweet shop in District 12, but I have no idea what it tastes like.

I reach over to try one, and see a flash of colour from the corner of my eye. When I turn back, my hand still hovering over the tray of assorted chocolates, I see Milagro is pinning something to her blouse.

"That's Mamá's brooch!" I exclaim in an accusatory voice.

"She gave it to me." Milagro lowers her eyes. "My district token."

"Token?" I echo. Every year tributes are allowed to bring a token with them into the arena. More often than not, tokens are confiscated because they can be used as potential weapons. Still, it stings that our parent's gave Milagro a token, but not me.

Booster laughs the growing tension between us away. "Neat-o. Do you have a token, Jaime?" He mispronounces my name as "Jay-mee", and I decide that I do not like him at all.

I shake my head in response.

"Hmm," Booster murmurs, more to himself than to us. He exits the dining car and returns moments later, his fist closed tight around something. Before I can process what's happening, he's pulled me to my feet, his hand clenching around the fabric of my shirt.

"Hey!" I protest, but by the time the word has left my mouth, he's already stepped back.

"Your token."

I finger the circular pin fastened to my shirt. It is a deep midnight blue, and has some sort of beetle affixed to its center. It takes me a moment to recognize it, but we learned about Scarabs in school . They are genomorphs: genetically engineered mutations bred by the Capitol in a branch of labs called CADMUS. These particular genomorphs, or genos for short, acted as parasites and were meant to take control of the rebels during the uprising that lead to the formation of the Hunger Games.

The thing about the Scarabs, though, is that most of them were faulty. Rebels pretended that they were being controlled by the Scarabs, but really, they were in full control of their person, and used the opportunity to feed the Capitol endless lies. Since then, Scarabs have been a symbol of rebellion.

Why someone like Booster, who thus far not shown even a hint of bitterness towards the Capitol, is giving me a Scarab pin… I do not know.

"It's a Blue Beetle," Booster explains. "This pin was the token of District 12's last victor, Ted Kord."

"And he gave it to you?" I ask, incredulously. Just when I think I've figured out who Booster Gold is, he reveals this whole new layer to himself. "You two must have been close."

"Close. Yeah… we were…" his voice trails off, and he turns back to his drink.

I force myself to look back at Milagro. "It looks good on you," I say softly, eyes trained on the brooch.

She smooths her shirt self consciously and nods. "Thank you." After that, there's not much more to do than taste the refreshments.

Once night has fallen, and I am ensconced in my private quarters, I strip out of my clothes. I discard my shirt, pants and undergarments on the floor, and rummage through the wardrobe where clean clothes have been laid out for me.

I slip into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. The mattress is luxuriously soft, unlike the rough canvas I sleep on at home. Home. What are my parents doing now?

Did they spend supper in quiet prayer? Are they headed for bed, or will they even try to get sleep tonight?

I close my eyes, but I know right away that sleep is not coming. Sighing, I wrap the sheets tighter around me, and turn on the television.

They are broadcasting the Reapings for each District again. Somehow, I manage to make it through them all.

The tributes from District 1 are both volunteers, and not only that, but they're fraternal twins. Looks like Milagro and I aren't the only brother-sister team headed for the arena.

A few other tributes stand out in my mind; the male tribute from District 2, Cameron Mahkent, is rumored to have volunteered simply to gain attention; another from District 4, Fishing, with almond shaped eyes and black hair is somehow familiar to me. But most hauntingly of all, an auburn haired boy from District 5, power, is called.

At age thirteen the male from District 5 is the second youngest tribute to be entering the arena for this year's Games, after Milagro, of course. I replay his Reaping and watch him climb the podium. He does not look afraid. His chin is jutted out defiantly, and he stands tall, proud. When I mounted the stage, I was just barely holding my fear back.

Swallowing, I replay his Reaping for a third time. "Bart Allen," their escort announces. A shiver runs down my spine, but I am not entirely sure why. It's because he is so young, I decide. Yet I don't feel the need to replay our Reaping to watch Milagro get called.

"Bart Allen," I whisper, the name rolling comfortably on my tongue. His floppy brownish-red hair and piercing green eyes are the last thing I see before I drift off to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Young Justice Hunger Games AU, mainly focusing on Jaime Reyes. Bluepulse later on. I'm not sure yet if I should continue this or just scrap it? Anyways, constructive criticism & reviews are greatly appreciated. **


	2. Part 1 - The Tributes: Chapter 2

**_Part I - "The Tributes" __Chapter 2_**

The following morning I have to fight to keep my breakfast down. The food is so rich and dissimilar to anything else I have ever stomached that my body can't handle it. A tureen of cold fruit, several plates of rolls and pastries dotted with seeds or filled with a chocolate paste or spiced jam, sit uneaten. I feel like a pig being fattened up for slaughter.

"Jaime, look!" Milagro cries, grabbing my arm. Up until this point there has been minimal interaction between us, the unspoken tension on our relationship clearly prominent.

I turn to follow her gaze. There it is. The renowned Capitol glittering with an unequaled brilliance. Oddly dressed people point and gawk at us as our tribute train rolls past. I grimace and pull away from their prying eyes, but Milagro is pressed right up against the glass, smiling and waving.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, not bothering to mask my disgust.

"Maybe one of them is rich," she answers with a sheepish shrug.

It's a fair point, and really quite clever of Milagro. While I am acting indifferent towards potential sponsors, she is encouraging them, and making what may be a lasting impression.

"So Mila's done something to gain a few sponsors. Any suggestions on what I should do?" I question Booster, who is refilling his glass.

"Oh, just be yourself."

I grit my teeth. Yes, because that has already helped me so much in the way of friendships. Not that Booster would know. He hasn't really bothered to get to know either of his proteges.

After the train stops, Milagro and I part ways and I meet my prep team. They're idiots. Like blithering, ridiculous idiots. They wash me down and lather my skin with something that supposedly makes it "glow". Next they're trimming my eyebrows, styling my hair and gelling it, all the while chatting on the current fashions and which tributes they think are going to die first.

It's sickening listening to these people. I manage to keep quiet, gritting my teeth when they pluck hair and scrub away layers of skin.

"You know," one of them says, "if I had to bet on whose going to go first, I'd guess that District 5 boy. He's looks so underfed, I bet even I could snap him in half."

Something about the comment sets me off. Not just because they-the Capitol children- speak so flippantly about the Hunger Games, but because they find it entertaining. My blood is broiling as she continues conversing with the rest of the prep team.

"I'm not sure about that. He's an Allen, after all."

The former makes a noise of assent. "True. If he's as fast as Barry it should be interesting Games. He'll need to be quicker than that cousin of his, though."

"Oh! When Wally died in last year's Games I was so shocked. I mean, I don't think anyone saw it coming."

I sit up, and push their preening hands away. "I'm done," I say with such fervor and finality that they actually step back.

They exchange a look, but make no attempt to argue. In other words, they're all talk and no action.

By the time my stylist walks in my skin is still tingling with pain and I'm still shaking with anger. She circles around me, most likely to observe and note my flaws. Her skin is dyed green, something not uncommon with Capitol citizens, and she has red hair and a light spattering of freckles across her cheeks.

"How despicable we must seem to you." Her voice is soft and timid. She doesn't wait for a response though, because she is already prodding my skin with her finger tips.

"You're my stylist?" She isn't at all what I expected. She is too caring, too gentle. There is something else, something in her gaze, that is a mix of pride and shame. I wonder what happened to her to make her so starkly different from the rest of the Capitol.

She smiles. "Let's just say I've always been good at changing appearances."

"You got stuck with District 12?"

"I asked for District 12." She examines me once more, her eyebrows cinched in concentration. "Jaime, is it?"

She pronounced it correctly. I like her already. "Yes."

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Megan Morse." We shake hands, as equals. But the moment of friendliness is fleeting, and before I know it, she's back to work. Megan measures my height, my arms, and waist.

"Your District's profession is coal mining, correct?"

I nod. The tribute's from our District usually end up in coal miner's outfits, which does nothing to win us sponsors.

"What do you use coal for? Fire, right? This year District 12 is going to go out with a bang. It'll be the hottest performance of the Opening Ceremonies!"

"You're going to set me on fire?" I joke.

"Oh, not me," she deadpans. "I'm not… I don't like fire. But your sister's stylist will take care of that."

I gulp. I'd suddenly rather be dressed in a clunky coal miner's suit.

I meet with Megan later, and she helps me slip into a sleek black outfit. It has highlights of blue, the color of a flame if it burns hot enough. Black and blue. I inspect myself in the floor-length mirror. I am the color of a bruise. Still, the material looks good; it adds a bit of padding to my muscles, but the fabric thins along my torso and rib cage, so that you can see the contours of my abs. The overall effect makes me look more muscular than I actually am.

Megan has already assured me that my costume will compliment Milagro's, but surely my sister isn't dressed in similar apparel. I bite the inside of my cheek and wait.

When Milagro enters the room, my jaw literally drops. What have they done with my sister? I survey her quietly. Her eyelids appear to have been dusted with a smoky powder that gives the illusion of coal dust. Her hair is no longer in its signature pigtails, and instead cascades past her shoulders in waves. Her outfit is a gossamer gown of midnight blue, accentuated with hints of gold and pink that enhance the fire theme.

She looks older. I cross my arms, frowning. I don't like it.

"Shouldn't she be wearing minimal make-up? To make her look innocent?" I challenge.

Milagro's stylist is a tall brooding man with steely blue eyes and black hair. He stands in such close proximity with Megan that it makes me wonder if they're together.

Milagro's stylist sighs, as if he is an adult about to explain something complicated to a very small child. "That won't help with sponsors. You're already at a disadvantage. The other tributes know you'll be going out of your way to protect her. We need to take away her innocence; make her look older, stronger."

Milagro and I step into the chariot. "You look good," she whispers, but the compliment only elicits a deeper frown on my part.

"Now, when we push this button," Megan starts, "well, when Conner presses the button, you two will be lit up with synthetic fire. It won't hurt, I promise."

Will Megan and Conner lose their positions if Milagro and I are reduced to ashes before the Games have even begun? My stomach twists and churns, and I direct my attention to the other chariots.

Our costumes are very artfully designed, but not at all unforgettable. My eyes sweep across the tributes, and stop on the District 5 Chariot. My heart gives a nervous flip-flop. The male tribute, Bart Allen, I remind myself, is dressed in a cream suit with red zig-zags. No, lightning bolts. Clever, given that District 5's profession is power.

As if he feels the heat of my gaze, Bart turns, and those luminous evergreen eyes lock on my brown ones. My cheeks flame brighter than my costume, and I turn away.

Milagro taps her nails along the side of the Chariot, and I notice that little flames have been painted on them. "What?" she asks. I have been staring at her for too long.

"Mamá and Papá are in for a real shock."

She grins and I grin back, and it feels so good to smile again. To really smile, without having to force it.

"Yeah? Well wait 'til they see _you_!"

"Please," I scoff.

"I mean it, Jaime. You're going to get lots of sponsors."

"So are you."

She shakes her head, and somehow I can tell the discussion is closed. Against my better judgement, my gaze flickers back to Bart, but he's no longer looking in my direction. I'm not sure why exactly, but for some reason I'm left a bit disappointed.

I don't have time to dwell on why I feel so drawn to the District 5 boy, because in another moment, the parade has begun, and the Chariots are moving down. Megan steps forward to feed a sugar cube to one of the horses pulling the chariot. "Good boy, Khaji Da," she whispers, giving him a pat.

And then we're off. I crane my neck to watch Megan and Conner, when I see his thumb press down on the button. Flames erupt along our clothes, glowing a scintillating blue. Milagro looks radiant, her face illuminated by a halo of blue, and from the awe-stricken look she sends my way, I guess I am equally enthralling.

The audience "oohs" and "ahs" as we move by. Mila slips her hand in mine, and I lift it up for the crowd to see. We are united.

Through the tumult of the crowd I hear desperate cries of "Jaime" and "Milagro", the Capitol people are pining for our attention. I smile and wave at them with my free hand, while Milagro blows them kisses. The sky is darkening, and the rest of the tributes fade into the night. But not us. We are as radiant as the sun.

"Nice work!" Booster nods his head approvingly at us after the Parade is over. "Jaime Reyes, the boy who was on fire!" He turns to Milagro. "And, of course, the girl on fire!" As he talks, the glass in his hand tilts, sloshing vodka all over the floor. Booster doesn't seem to notice. "I knew you two could do it!"

I find this statement rather ironic considering he was nowhere to be seen earlier. Behind Conner, Megan, and Booster, I see a silhouette approaching.

"A lovely performance," Queen Bee congratulates in a low voice. "Training starts tomorrow. You'll want to be fully rested." Her eyes, as merciless and cold as a snake's, gleam, as if challenging us to argue.

Megan's smile suddenly seems forced and Conner's gaze has hardened, as if Queen Bee's very presence is a threat. Booster, however, is too occupied with his drink to either notice or care.

Milagro and I head for our sleeping chambers, and for the first time, I feel like we may actually stand a chance.

—

"You are all welcome to use the weapons and training equipment, but you are not to engage in combat with another tribute. If you need a sparring partner, I'll be here."

There is something unnerving about Dinah, the head trainer. Maybe it's the fact that her upper arm is bandaged, or maybe it's that she has any bruises to show at all, but I can't help wondering what someone in the Capitol had to do to get injured.

For the course of the next three days, Milagro and I wander from station to station. I try teaching her how to set a snare, but my efforts are wasted. Surprisingly though, she has an impressive amount of knowledge on vegetation and edible berries. She also knows how to purify water using iodine, something I myself didn't know.

I test my hand at a few different weapons, and earn appraising remarks from our trainer. My years of hunting with Tye have given me a bit of an edge. When I throw knives I hit the target every time. I'm alright with a spear, as long as I don't have to throw it too far.

We're at the camouflage booth, when Milagro leans in and whispers, "I think we have a shadow."

I follow her gaze. Bart Allen stands several paces behind us, almost completely blended in with the shadows. Almost, but not quite.

"District 7, right?" Milagro whispers.

"Five," I correct. Her eyebrows jump in surprise.

"I, uh," I stammer, "I paid close attention to the Reapings."

She nods, but her gaze shifts to something curious. I finish my crude attempt at painting a leaf design, and we head over to the lunch tables.

The Careers, Districts 1, 2, and 4 all sit together, like a pack. I recognize the Terror Twins, as I refer to them in my head, as well as Cameron and Tigress. Seated beside Tigress, the raven-haired girl with slanted eyes, is a tall boy with coffee coloured skin and pale blonde hair. I can't place his name.

Milagro and I claim the farthest table, distancing ourselves as far from the other tributes as possible.

"You thought about making any allies?"

I gnaw on my lip. District 11's tributes, Mal Duncan and Karen Beecher, would probably laugh if I proposed an alliance. I watched them both during training. Karen is admirably intelligent and Mal's arms are wider than my head. He wouldn't even need a weapon to kill me. Both tributes from District 3, electronics, know how to handle weapons, and are both skilled fighters. The boy's name is Tim Drake, I remember, but I can't recall the girl's surname. Stephanie something.

The Careers are also definitely not an option. They seemed mildly impressed with my ability to handle weapons, but not enough to consider me. I wouldn't want them for allies, either.

District 5's male tribute, nicknamed Arsenal, has a sly smile that leaves me hesitant to trust him. An alliance with him could only be temporary, and from the way he watches all of us, I get the feeling that he has his own personal agenda.

Some of the other tributes look either too scrawny or too distrusting to be of any use.

One by one my I rule each of the tributes out. If I had to choose one, I'd probably say District 5, but Milagro's already suspicious about how I knew Bart's name. I'm actually growing a bit wary of him myself. Every time I notice him my heart picks up, which can only be a sign not to enlist him as an ally.

With a painstakingly slow pause, I shake my head.

"Me neither. Booster says it wouldn't be a bad idea, though. Forming an alliance."

"I doubt he really knows anything about mentoring. It's such a total rip," I grumble suddenly vexed, "all the other tributes have former victors backing them up. We didn't even get to meet the guy who should've been our mentor!"

"No offense Jaime, but who cares? It's not like we're going to-"

"No. Don't give up yet." The Games haven't even started, and I'll do anything and everything I can to keep her alive.


	3. Part 1 - The Tributes: Chapter 3

**_Part I - "The Tributes" __Chapter 3_**

Now that our three days of training are up, the tributes will get a chance to show the Gamemakers their skills, earning them a score from 1-12, one being exceptionally poor, and 12 being nearly unattainable.

Most tributes average a five, but the Careers often land in the seven to ten range. No one's scored an eleven in recent years, let alone a twelve. The higher you score, the more likely you are to gain sponsors. I'm hoping for at least an eight, but even that's being optimistic.

"Good luck."

They've called Milagro's name. Her hands rest stiffly at her sides, and she nods tersely before entering the room.

It feels like mere seconds later when they call my name. Being District 12, I will be the last tribute to perform.

As soon as I walk in I know something's wrong. The Gamemakers have watched 23 tributes before me. It's late and most of them have had one too many drinks.

Even the Head Gamesmaker, a relatively young man with blue tinted skin and black hair, looks bored, and he supposedly only joined in the first place because he thought it would be "fun". Yes, endless fun to watch us tributes kill each other.

An impressive array of weapons are lined up against the far wall. I pick out a few knives and make my way to the throw line in front of several targets.

"Should I begin, then?" the bitter undertone to my voice manages to catch their flitting attention. I grip the knife and throw it towards the target. As soon as the blade leaves my hand I know something's wrong.

My stance is too stiff, the grip on the knife too tight. The blade skims the outer ring of the target. I hear disappointed chuckles sound from behind me, but I throw again, undeterred.

I manage to hit the target smack in the middle. Hopefully they'll overlook my first throw. I throw the rest of the knives, achieving the same result.

I risk a look back at the Gamesmakers, but their backs are to me. They're more interested in watching the Head Gamesmaker play with his cat. He holds a ball of yarn out to the orange tabby, but it stares disinterestedly. "Come on Teekl," he laughs in a high voice.

I try to draw breath but I can't, that's how mad I am. They value the life of that cat more than they care about mine. My eyes dart around for a weapon, anything I can use, and my hand settles on some sort of metal device. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull on the trigger and a large blue staple launches in their direction, pinning the cat to the wall.

Their raucous laughter drops to a hushed, collective gasp. "Thank you for your consideration." I let the metal device drop to the floor with a clang, and make for the door. Not before I lock eyes with the Head Gamesmaker, however. His face is contorted into a look of pure rage, and his black eyes are unforgiving.

I know, without a doubt, that I've sabotaged my only chance of surviving in the arena.

Once in my room, I pull my head to my knees. I feel the sting of tears, but blink them back. _[Crying is good, Jaime Reyes. Tears discharge stress hormones.] _I stiffen at the unwelcome voice in my head. Crying is not good. Tears are useless things that won't help at all.

The hours pass by quickly, so quickly, that it feels like mere moments later when Milagro barges into my room.

"Come on, Jaime! They're showing the scores."

Reluctantly, albeit obediently, I join Milagro, Booster, our stylists and the prep team in the main foyer.

"I'm probably going to get a one," I mutter miserably.

Surprisingly, it's Booster that answers me. "Hey, kid. Scores only matter if they're high. And I'm sure you won't get too low."

"Not worse than me," Mila added with a forced smile.

"I attacked the Head Gamesmaker!"

"You. Did. What?" Each of Queen Bee's words is punctuated with a disapproving growl as she takes a seat on the adjoining couch.

"Well, I, uh, I attacked his cat. There was this blue staple gun thing and I pinned it to the wall."

Booster shakes with suppressed laughter, but everyone else has lapsed into silence. It's an awkward sort of silence; the tension so thick I could cut it with a knife.

"That kind of behavior will not be tolerated," Queen Bee glares, and the atmosphere of the room seems to drop several degrees. Before she can continue, the screen comes to life, bathing the room with artificial light.

The cameras zoom in on G. Gordon Godfrey, the renowned host of the Hunger Games. He has sandy blonde hair and dark, prominent eyebrows, but it's his demeanour that makes him so influential. The way he carries himself, the conviction with which he speaks, and how he always fixes others with a steely gaze, is what has made him the most notable Games host in a long time.

My jaw clenches involuntarily as he proceeds to announcing the scores. First, an image of the tribute is shown, followed by a number. Godfrey announces the score verbally, and then the screen switches to the next tribute. District 5, aka Bart, scored a seven, which Godfrey praised as surprising given his small stature. A lot of the scores are fairly high, only adding to my mounting anxiety. The only score below five, so far, is Arsenal's, though from seeing him in training I have a feeling that was intentional. If players are underestimated, it gives them a certain edge. Though I doubt that sort of tactic would work for me, especially given that I have to look after Milagro's life, and not just my own.

Finally, he reaches District 12.

"Ah, yes," Godfrey enunciates each word carefully, "Milagro Reyes with a score of six."

"And lastly, Jaime Reyes with a score of..." Godfrey's voice trails off as his penciled brow raises almost imperceptibly. A groan tumbles unbidden from my lips. I got a one. Or a two, at best. The lowest score in the entire Games. No one will even consider sponsoring me.

"Jaime Reyes," as Godfrey repeats my name, my heart sinks a little lower in my chest, "with a score of eleven."

A gasp grows and dies in my throat. They can't be serious. I'm about to voice my concerns when Booster clicks his tongue.

"Guess they must've liked your spunk."

Everyone else has abandoned their spots on the plush couches, but my knees are shaking so bad I can't even attempt to rise to my feet. _Eleven. _I've never really had a favorite number until now.

"A congratulations is certainly in order," Queen Bee smiles, and it's like all the air has been sucked out of the room. "Now, though, it is almost guaranteed that you will be targeted by the other tributes." She smiles in what would look sympathetic to anyone else, but I can sense the bite behind it. It's not an empty threat, either. I scored higher than any of the Careers; I'll be the first one they take out. That in its self is problematic, but because I lost my head in training, Milagro's life is jeopardized too.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about Jaime," Milagro says decisively. She sends a knowing smile my way, and her liquid eyes say 'You're going to win'. I smile back at her. 'No. No, I'm not'.

Morning comes too quickly. Shafts of sunlight filter in through the window, but I'm able to ignore them. I'm a restless sleeper, but a deep one. Still, when Megan yanks the covers off and throws the curtains aside, I lose the battle to stay unconscious.

"Come on, Jaime!" she says cheerfully. "Your interview is later today. Just wait until you see your costume!"

Her enthusiasm is met with another groan before I mumble out something incoherent that's not quite English and not quite Spanish.

"Hurry up!" Booster calls from outside, and I force myself upright. The light coming from the broad window is harsh, like needles to my eyes. I let out another groan, before beginning my morning routine. If I was back home, heading to the woods to hunt for game would've been part of that routine. I feel like a traitor as I'm caught in a rainstorm of warm water and fragrant scents. Back home, we didn't even have a shower; just a water basin that was always cold.

After I'm done showering, I meet with Booster. We actually discuss various strategies, and he pretends to interview me. He has a winning megawatt smile and the right amount of charm to win the crowd without coming across as arrogant. I do not possess such traits.

"District 12 is, uh, nice," I mumble when he asks me about life back home.

Booster claps a hand on my shoulder. "Kid, relax. You're not even in front of a camera. Just be yourself."

Be myself? I'm myself when I'm with Tye, when I'm supporting my family. Talking about myself in front of a live audience... in front of cameras and on screen... Mierda. My stomach heaves, and I bolt to the washroom. I dry heave again, but manage to fight the spasm down.

Once my breathing is steady, I return to Booster. A glass that wasn't there before is now positioned in his hand. He sighs. "Look, take it from me. You don't have to be yourself in front of these people. You just have to make them like you. Find a comfortable topic, something that'll get them to relate to you."

Relate to me? How could they possibly relate to me? I relate more to the squirrels and rabbits Tye and I hunt, because at least they are also fighting for their survival. I'm not even entirely convinced that these people are human.

"Whoa, whoa!" Booster must see the look on my face. In an attempt to help calm my writhing stomach, he amends, "calm down, kid. Like, just leave it up to Godfrey. You don't even have to worry about it now."

And that's that. The last few hours have been wasted. I haven't worked up any angle whatsoever. I'm not charming, or aloof, or cunning to get sponsors.

Sighing, Booster takes another swig of his drink, before sending me off to Megan. "Might as well get in costume. I'll try working on your sister, see if she's easier to deal with."

"How'd it go?" she asks brightly.

I fix her a sour look, and her face softens. "I'm sure you'll feel better once you look the part. And no one is going to remember what you say; they'll be too focused on what you're wearing!"

She helps me slip into an unembellished charcoal black suit that glitters blue when the light hits it right. She uses make-up to highlight my features and instructs my prep team to style my hair. They muss into a "classically rugged" look.

"You look great! Doesn't he look great."

There is a chorus of agreements, and my cheeks suffuse with color at the compliments. Yet it's also a bit disturbing that something as trivial as looks can make me feel good about myself. In a matter of weeks, they've turned me into one of them. My expression instantly darkens at the notion, but they fail to take notice.

"We'll leave you alone for a bit," Megan ushers everyone out. "I'm going to compare notes with Conner."

Once they're gone, I examine myself in front of the floor length mirror.

"You look good," a voice says from behind me.

I do look good, but at the same time, it doesn't feel like me. I'm an impostor, and the makeup and outfit is my mask. Wait, what? I whirl around at the unfamiliar voice. Leaning against the doorframe is a boy with piercing green eyes that sparkle with mirth. Up close, I realize that his hair isn't really auburn; there are glints of brown, red, and copper.

"_How_ did you get in here?"

He gives a noncommittal shrug. "Thought I'd try out the elevators. They didn't even notice. I'm faster than they're used to."

"_Why_ did you come in here? You could get in a lot of trouble." I try to sound menacing, but all that shows in my voice is shock.

"You won't rat me out?" he says it like a question, but we both know it isn't. He walks closer and my heart beats double time. "I haven't seen my outfit yet. But yours looks good on you. _Really_ good."

Is it my imagination that he said the latter part of his sentence seductively? He looks too innocent to be able to use such a husky voice on command. I frown at him, but this only elicits a smile.

"I'm Bart Allen."

"I know," I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

"You do?" he sounds pleased. "And you're—"

"—Jaime Reyes," I interrupt.

"I know."

The air is charged with energy, as if everything in the room is thrumming with life. He steps forwards, and his lips move, but I don't hear what he says. _[The Bart Allen is too impulsive. He threatens your existence. Destroy him.] _

"No!"

Bart blinks in confusion and takes a step back, looking dejected. "I didn't mean," I grasp for words, "I—" my voice falters at the audible sound of footsteps.

I turn back to Bart, but he's already gone. The best thing to do would be to stay put, but amid the conversing voices is one I don't recognize.

"What's going on?"

"Excuse me," Booster says to a blonde man. "Jaime, this is an old friend of mine."

"Well, I'm not sure if _friend _is the right word," the man laughs. "More like ally." Turning to me, he extends his hand. "Hi, I'm Barry."

"Barry Allen?" I ask disbelievingly.

"You've heard of me?" he grins.

"I... my prep team mentioned you. You were a victor."

"Mentor, now. I was around before Gold was, though."

"What are you doing here?" I ask bluntly.

"It's common for mentors to get together," Booster interjects hastily, "discuss alliances and sponsorship plans."

I nod my head slowly. More likely he's here to find Bart.

"Who was the president when you two were victors?" Milagro asks, stepping into the hallway.

"It was still President Savage; he's been around a long time."

She considers this, before turning to me. "I like your outfit."

"Thanks," I mutter. "How come you're not in yours?"

She's dressed in simple flats and a tunic; the same clothes she wore at breakfast. "Conner says the the fabric of my dress stains really easily. I don't get to see it until later."

Booster examines his wrist, even though I can easily see there's no watch there. "Well, it is getting late. Why don't you two have dinner? I'll join you shortly."

We nod in unison and head to the dining room. I contemplate telling Milagro about Bart, but for some reason I don't end up telling her. Instead, we talk about our upcoming interviews.

"I'm supposed to act sweet and innocent during my interview," she says, as she takes a few slices of chicken and ladles gravy onto her mashed potatoes.

"Think you can manage that?" I ask. She flicks some of her food at me in response.

It's just the two of us, for the moment, and a red-haired avox girl serves us drinks. She has bright blue eyes, like pools of water, and walks with a limping gait. I wonder what could've caused her accident. In a way, she's lucky. The Capitol had specialized doctors and advanced medicine. An accident that would've left you paralyzed in the districts, only left you limping in the Capitol.

As she pours me a glass of water, I thank her, but she only lowers her eyes.

"How are you supposed to act in the interview?" Milagro inquires through a mouthful of food.

I scratch the back of my neck. "I'm, uh, sort of going to wing it."

"Jaime! Esto es serio!"

"I know. I have stage fright, okay?"

I take a sip of water, but end up missing my mouth. Water dribbles down my front, and I attempt to swipe it away before Milagro notices.

The clicks of her heels applaud Queen Bee's entrance as she takes a seat beside me. "I assume the two of you have worked out you interviews, correct?" Her gaze is locked on Milagro, but she watches me from the corner of her eyes.

"Yeah," I lie smoothly. "We've got it all worked out."

"Good," she states in her honeyed voice, "I hope the two of you will be careful about what you say. The Gamesmakers can influence who lives and dies more than you think. Make sure you do not say or do anything that will give them reason to play God with your lives."

An image of the Games maker's cat pinned to the wall is conjured by my mind.

"Understood."

Milagro's soon leaves to slip into her Interview gown. I wait patiently, imagining her in a simple charcoal dress that'll match mine.

When she and Conner re-enter the room, however, she is not wearing anything that I'd imagined. Her gown is grey and hazy, like a breath of mist. Her lips are painted a bright red, embers that are glowing red-hot.

"Do I look okay?" a timid smile graces her face.

My voice comes out oddly strangled. "You look like... like a _girl._"

"And that's still the best compliment I've ever gotten from you."

I laugh, partly out of nerves, and partly because it is a relief to still have moments like these. When the elevator opens up, we head towards the stage, where the other tributes are lined up. Their stylists have gone all out as well.

The Terror Twins are dressed in white and red. I'm not sure how this color scheme works with their District, Luxury, but they're definitely intimidating with their combat boots and spiked gloves. It's not hard to get a good look at the other tributes; we're all swiveling and turning to size up our competition. The District 4 girl has a black necklace with a yellow pearl suspended from it. I can't decide if it's her token or part of her interview costume.

My eyes run up and down the line several more times, before landing on Bart. His outfit is gold with hints of red that somehow don't clash with his hair. As he moves, the stage light reflects off him, bright and flickering like electricity. My pulse skitters as Gordon Godfrey welcomes the first tribute.

Tuppence Terror is the first to mount the stage, and she struts across it to her seat with confidence and indifference. I watch the screens as the interviews go by. Bart is full of energy during his interview, and it's infectious. He uses words like "mode" and "crash" which confuses the audience, but he hastily explains that it's District 5 slang. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I watch Bart from the screens. His composure and attitude is so mature, like he can't possibly be only thirteen years old.

"So, Bart," Godfrey asks. He has a way of being able to turn the crowd's favour. "Someone as cute as you... there must be someone special back home?"

He bites his lip in thought. "There is someone... recently. I don't think it's a mutual thing though."

The audience was sympathetic—even they could relate to unrequited love—and Godfrey nodded his head. "That is a spot of bad luck. But I'll tell you what: you fight, you go back home, and she'll have to give you a chance."

Bart just shook his head tiredly. "Winning won't help. Because," he paused, and a light blush dusted his cheeks. "Because I like another tribute."

I gasp, but the sound is shared by the audience as well, so no one pays me any particular attention.

The District 7 girl, a short blonde with brown eyes, squeals from up ahead. "I bet it's me! I caught him looking at me earlier."

"Shut up, Cissie," the male tribute beside her mutters.

I bite down on my cheek to refrain from saying something snide, but really, what made me think it was me? Bart probably doesn't even look at other guys. And I don't either. I'm straight, like 900% straight. He probably only came to my dressing room to try and psych me out. Too bad he wasted his time.

As the interviews pass one-by-one, I can't help but think at what a disadvantage Milagro and I are at. The audience will get bored by the time it's our turn to be interviewed, and this is our last real chance to gain sponsors before the Games begin. And the Hunger Games begin tomorrow.

Gulping a lungful of air, I watch Milagro take her seat beside G. Gordon Godfrey. She is much better at acting calm than I am. I force myself to breathe from my diaphragm, but it does nothing to quell my anxiety.

She is sweet and gracious, and answers all of Godfrey's questions with an embarrassed, yet gracious, smile. He then makes a comment on how she is the darling of the Capitol.

She blushes furtively, and stammers out a thank-you, which makes the crowd swoon.

I have to choke back bile. I loathe seeing her like this. Another puppet of the Capitol. What I have to come to terms with, sooner rather than later, is that we are all puppets with someone else pulling our strings.

Once Milagro's interview is over, I head for the stage. She squeezes my palm as our paths cross. I want to warn her that I'm all sweaty, but can't find my voice. 'Three minutes,' I chant silently. Each interview is only three minutes and then it's over.

"So Jaime," it's hard to focus on what he's saying. All that registers is his thick Capitol accent.

I can't bring myself to look him in the eye. I'm practically shaking and if he notices, then he'll probably try to make a joke out of it. Instead, I look out at the crowd. The stylists had been commandeered to the front row. Pretend you're talking to Booster. He's likable enough. My throat closes up, as if I've swallowed a mouthful of sawdust.

"Uh, Jaime, did you catch what I said?"

"What?" I ask, mortified.

"Seems someone's a little nervous." The audience chuckles goodnaturedly. "I said, you've been quite a mystery to us so far. Volunteering for your sister, for starters."

I swallow. They have no right to know about my personal life. And then it hits me: Tye. The one person I trust wholeheartedly. I can tell him.

"Milagro? Oh, mi hermana is a pain! I don't know who that cutesy girl was that came up here before me, but I've never seen her before."

"Jaime!" she exclaims from off stage. Her voice carries and echoes across the stage and the audience gives a genuine chuckle.

"And care to tell us a bit about that score of yours in training?"

I'm not sure if we're allowed to disclose anything about our training scores, and more importantly, I don't want anyone to brush the score off as "luck", because in truth, that's all it is. Instead, I smile coyly and fold my hands across my lap. "Oh, I dunno if I should reveal anything. Wouldn't want to take away from the show, now would I?"

Godfrey winces. "You're killing us. Not even a hint?"

Tye's just made a sarcastic remark, I tell myself insistently. I force a smirk, and shake my head stubbornly.

"Well," Godfrey reins in the crowd with his mandating voice. It's lighthearted and yet manages to command authority all at once. "You definitely seem to have a bit of a mystery complex, boy on fire. There a girl back home you'd like to say something to?"

I duck my head. "Uh, no, actually. T-there's no one. Er, at least, I don't think anyone is particularly interested in me."

A bunch of people in the audience start shouting and jumping; clamoring for my attention. "Well, it looks like you have a few takers."

The idea that the very people who are betting on my death might find me desirable is... a strange prospect. Instead of voicing my confusion, I blow the crowd a kiss. "Muchos gracias señoritas."

The shouts of the crowd get louder at this, and it takes me a moment to realize that they're chanting _my_ name.

I'm not sure how to deal with the praise or shouts, but at that moment, the buzzer goes off. "Well, that's all the time we have. Thank you for your time."

"Gracias, Mr. Godfrey," I shake his hand, and for a few seconds it's not hard to imagine that we are long time friends. But as his face turns away from the audience, he grins at me, and it's a taunting sort of grin. I don't know why I expected anything less from someone working alongside people like Klarion and President Savage.

Still shaking slightly, but this time more from adrenaline than fear, I exit the stage and head back to the rooms. Now that the interview is over and done with, all I have to face is the actual Games themselves. Assuming I stay alive for longer than a few seconds.


End file.
